Once a friend from Kyiv called me and, skipping the question about the children's health, went straight to the point:
— I have to tell you that a great writer lives in our country, in our time, and you surely have not even heard of him.
— I have, — I answered almost without thinking, and gave her his name.
She confirmed it, disappointed. Although I too had heard of him only recently, and had read him barely two months earlier, I added with an air of importance:
— Of course, how could I not know! — And repeated, with finality and pleasure: — I know him — HRANT MATEVOSSIAN!